[It isn't welcome. Not at first. Edgeworth grimaces at the acknowledgement, turning a bitter, harsh glare on the wall, and bites back the knee-jerk reaction to snap at the boy for intruding where it was none of his business. But the impulse is short-lived. Edgeworth rubs his temple for a moment then turns his back on Winner, crossing his arms defensively. His fingers fret fitfully at his sleeve as he dwells in the familiar ache for a while, silent, the soft sound of a sharp intake of breath still ringing in his ears.]

[When he finally speaks again, he refuses to turn around.] Your predecessor told me what happened to him. Just after I told him what happened to my own father. [He swallows hard. His voice takes on a strangely hollow, detached quality.] He was a defense attorney. The best I've ever known. He was...murdered. When I was nine.